


Why am I so emotional?

by CrimsonInk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cute, Fluff, M/M, Sad with a Happy Ending, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 13:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2194074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonInk/pseuds/CrimsonInk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock comes home, he begins to go on an emotional roller coaster, trying to come to terms with himself and find out how to confront John again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why am I so emotional?

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So this is the same as the last Johnlock fic I did (which i deleted. it was an accident, I swear! sorry) but I had an extra copy, and I just reposted it. :3 Enjoy! (again)  
> ~Emily

The building was closed, but that never mattered. It never had. Why would it be so now? Nimble fingers and a lock pick were all that he needed to get to the rooms inside. The door creaked as he tested it. He winced, glancing behind him. He slid through the door, careful not to make any noise, any noise at least, that was louder than the pound of the rain outside. The collar of his coat was still curled up against the rain and wind. Water dripped out of his hair and onto his scarf. It dripped onto the floor, making a small puddle on the ground. A smile passed over Sherlock’s face. It was wonderful. The rush, the people, the noise, he loved it. It was great being back in London, being able to breathe its air, feel its buzz. The people of London were always moving, hiding their little secrets, and playing their little games. The city was alive, it was breathing, it was his and he had waited so long to feel its rain, and have the wind cool his skin. He reached up to shake the water out of his hair, but he stopped, quickly washing the good mood away. He held his hands in front of his face. They were long and thinly boned, each tendon, each muscle finely tuned to do a specific task, working like clockwork. The clever hands that had fought off henchmen, handled the most delicate of items of evidence, and easily picked the lock on the door, were shaking. Staring at his hands, he stopped, all of his energy spent on looking at his hands. Rain poured outside, beating the glass, and poured in through the holes in the ceiling. It was the tremble that betrayed him. He mustered up the energy to begin a dazed walk through the empty building. Weaving his way in and out of the maze of dry rot and broken furniture, he reached a small door. Hidden in the back of the decrepit building, with peeling paint and a dented knob, it blended in with the empty loft. He crept in, closing it behind him. Sherlock paused, almost out of habit, to hear if anyone was behind him. Or if anyone was in the room. Several tense seconds followed, all the shadows disappearing. The coast was clear. A small sigh escaped from his lips. Two years of spent searching the world for Moriarty’s men left him extra jumpy and cautious. The only light was weak greyness from outside. It cast the area in a gloomy light making all the shadows disappear. Careful steps led him across the small room to the mirror on the wall. He looked cautiously into the smooth glass plane, fearful of what he might see. He looked the same. The same long cheekbones, the same nose, the same thin face. No. Something was off. His thoughts were darker and he seemed… old. He let lose a little air he had been holding. Mycroft had let him see himself when he got back from London, out of common decency maybe, but probably because Mycroft needed Sherlock to clean the wounds himself. Bloody and bruised, the violent interrogation still showed. Mycroft had saved him, just before he was going to be beaten to a bloody pulp. Well, maybe a bloodier pulp. Sherlock wasn’t sure if Mycroft could have helped him sooner, or if he was enjoying himself. He was unconscious half the time. Dragged back to London, his brother insisted he cleaned up. Not that he objected. But when he looked at himself, he refused to see more. He was almost scared to see more, what had happened to him in the last couple of years, finally being shown in full light. Always confident with himself, and sometimes a little arrogant, Sherlock had always been secure, never breaking the façade, always remaining rock solid. His brother knew this better than anyone. He would have loved to see him in a weak moment. He may have gone halfway across Europe to save him, but that doesn’t mean he won’t pick on him. At least John wouldn’t.  
Damn it.  
John.  
Sherlock slide down the wall, long hands covering his face, salty tears biting the still healing cuts on his hands. He had almost forgotten about him. Almost. He tried. He tried so very hard. He never expected to come home. Over the last couple of years, sometimes he never knew if he would wake up. Hiking through the Alps, travelling to India, and hunting down Moriarty’s men all the way to America, he was almost always in the way of someone. The majority of his two years were spent clearing his head, being more precise than ever. If he made one mistake…. But the moments of peace he had, when he was left alone, when he was staying with people scattered across the world, he would start thinking of him again. The times they had spent together, usually consisting of them staying up trying to solve a case, falling asleep on the couch when they were too tired to move.  
Some nights, however, were different. Sometimes, after a long day, after they had solved another case, and kept good men from dirtying their hands, and before Sherlock began to crave another case, they would sit and just be. Sherlock might play violin with Watson as his attentive audience, or John would work on his blog while they watched the sky fade from a pale blue, to the bright fire of sunset, to the rich velvet black of night. Sherlock never understood why he would drag him to the window to look at the moon or a meteor shower. Even if he cared about the sky and what it did, he wouldn’t look at them in the city. Too much light pollution. The only reason why he would even move off the couch was because John would light up. It was always interesting, the human emotions. He was by far the most captivating person Sherlock had ever met. No one could even come close. When looking at something as simple as the sky, he could see an entire range of emotions. Sherlock was bad at seeing the differences in some people’s faces. Happy and joyous looked the same, and tears were just annoying. But John was an enigmatic. When they were staying up, with John leaning against him, and violin music rippling across the apartment, he would get so distant. His eyes would glaze over, and his face would seem so young. Sometimes, he would look older than the oldest person alive, weary with our petty frets. At those rare moments, Sherlock would play as long as he could, just to keep seeing this new version of his companion. It made him want to hug him and kiss the little wrinkle on his forehead. It made him feel human. But he never did. And that’s all he thought about when he was gone. That he never got to say he loved him, and that he wasn’t going anywhere, and that he would do anything for him. Which is why he came back. Moriarty’s men were still out there. A few threads left in his giant web. But that could be handled. It was easy to swipe aside a few strands. It was time to come home. To see John again.

He stood up slowly and brushed off his coat. Tears were quickly dried, and the façade returned, as cold as ever. Striding out of the room he delicately picked his way across the minefield of holes and loose wires. Clicking the door softly shut behind him, he ruffled his hair and braced himself for the torrential downpour that greeted him. As he walked down the familiar streets, he looked around. The buildings were unchanged, the streets as crowded as ever, and the people, sadly, still uninteresting. But any observant passerby would notice a difference in the tall, pale man walking against the tide. There was a spring in his step, and a rare smile brushing his face. He glided through the city, breathing its air, absorbing the feeling of London again. It was back in his skin and bones, scuffing his shoes and dusting his face. Soon, he had walked to the restaurant that Mycroft told him John had reservations for. A little note in deep green ink, the same kind their father had used that Sherlock had loved since he was child, inscribed that a surprise was waiting for him at the nicest restaurant in London. He stepped into the small lobby, shaking the water out of his curly hair, fixing his shirt collar and straightening his scarf. The maître’d looked up at his arrival.  
“Do you have reservations sir?” Sherlock looked over at the man.  
“Yes I do. I believe my brother, Mycroft Holmes might have reserved it?” His voice didn’t tremor, even though he was scared to death. There was a rustle of paper.  
“Yes sir. Just this way,” the maître’d said, beginning to open the door.  
“I can find the table myself, thank you.” The man nodded and Sherlock moved through the door before he had any second guesses. Hands still shaking, and his gait hurried, his nervousness showed. People filled the white table clothed tables, all laughing and filling the room with the hum of voices. Sherlock ignored them and moved his gaze to the table at the back. John sat there, fiddling with the glass of wine given to him as he waited. Sherlock was at the table before he had time to think about what could go wrong. He normally was composed, but today, he was as nervous and anxious as a young school boy. He sat down in the chair across from his companion.  
“Hello.”  
The words came out of his throat hoarse and scratchy. John looked up. He took in every detail. A few more wrinkles lined his face, and a little sadness lurked behind his eyes. The same sadness he had seen in his own. It made his heart lurch, to see himself reflected across the table.  
“Ohh you bastard.” Sherlock shook off his thoughts. Before he could react, John had reached across the table and hugged Sherlock. A few people looked over, small expressions of joy painting their faces, before they turned away. John smiled, the same smile that Sherlock knew so well. “Welcome home.”

Sherlock sat down on the couch, coat and scarf hanging on its old spot by the door. A cup of tea was steaming on the small table by their chairs. Mrs. Hudson almost knocked a small mountain of plates off her table when she saw Sherlock. She then promptly made him a pot of tea, insisting that this would be the last time she would play housekeeper. John leaned against Sherlock, head on his chest, feet kicked up on the armrest of the sofa. Violin music played through the flat, filling the rooms with peace. John sighed and smiled.  
“I’m glad you’re home,” he said. Sherlock stopped playing. He loved that voice. He loved the person next to him. He loved him enough to die for him. Twice.  
“I am too,” Sherlock responded, resuming the ballad on his violin. He was fumbling. The notes kept coming out wrong, all because he was nervous. Nervous that he was this close to him after all these years. John resumed talking.  
“Why couldn’t you tell me you were alive? I missed you.”  
Sherlock froze. Of all the questions he could ask, why did he ask that? He opened his mouth to speak, then quickly closed it again.  
“Sherlock?” He inquired, looking up at Sherlock’s face, a sparkle in his eye. Sherlock glanced down at him. And now, here he as, the one person he wanted to be with all these years, the one person he needed, curled up in his arms. After all this time… Sherlock melted.  
To be with John again, to hold him close, to kiss him… it was worth it, the pain, the longing. Sherlock held him close and tenderly kissed John. He started and look back a Sherlock, a look of shock on his face.  
“Sherlock.”  
“Don’t. Please. I have waited so long, I have traveled so far to see you again. When I left, I realized there were so many things I didn’t say. So many things I wish I could have taken back. I missed you more than anything else. You,” he said. John looked startled. Sherlock was just as surprised at himself as well. He continued. “You were the reason why I came back.”  
John nodded and look up at Sherlock. The perplex look turned quickly into a small expression of joy.  
“And you were the reason I waited,” he responded. Sherlock smiled and gazed at him. He hugged him, keeping him tight in his arms until their foreheads touched. He looked at him, eyes locked on each other. Sherlock could say so many things. There was so much. He could go on for days about how much loved him, about how he made him seem human, or how he made him feel so horribly simple inside and that he loved that feeling of joy when he saw him. But he couldn't do it yet. Not yet. There were other people to see, other informants to thank, a few more threads of Moriarty’s web to break. He would have to wait a little longer to tell him everything. But now, all that mattered was that they were together. He leaned in the remaining distance between them and kissed John again. He stayed and Sherlock held him and kissed his forehead and lips. Love sang through his heart, violin music in a world of silence. It played through his cold façade, crumbling the last of his solid walls. All of it fell, leaving him freer than a bird out of its cage. Right now, all Sherlock, the great consulting detective, world renowned genius, and self-proclaimed sociopath, could think was how beautiful it was to be with the one person he loved and to hold him close. He was safe, he was home, and most importantly, he was with John. He was here, in this moment with the one person he loved past the moon and stars. And that is all he needed.


End file.
